The morning after those photos tore me apart, I stood outside Caleb’s apartment at seven, banging on the door until my knuckles hurt. I didn’t care who woke up.
He opened it, looking half-asleep in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, hair sticking up. His eyes went wide with worry.
“Lena? What’s wrong? Is Evan okay?”
I pushed past him. “We need to talk. Right now.”
He shut the door. “Okay. Tell me.”
I shoved my phone at him, photos already open. “Explain this. Explain,her. Explain why this showed up the second I said yes to us.”
He took the phone. His face went pale. “Where did you get these?”
“Some ‘friend’ emailed them right after you left. Perfect timing, right?” My voice shook. “So talk. Who is she and why is she all over you?”
“That’s Rebecca Moore, Patricia’s daughter. These photo
